I still wonder: was I truly cursed? The question coils around my soul like a serpent, its answer eluding me. Since childhood, one phrase has poisoned my ears: “Emma, you’re a wretched curse.” At first, the word’s weight escaped me, its meaning unclear. Why did Aunt Clara call me cursed? As years passed, the bitterness of that word sank deep, becoming part of my identity, my very being.
It began the day Father died. I was barely a year old. Mother faced the daunting task of raising me alone. Her family, impoverished, would have forced her to remarry. But she chose widowhood’s white veil over a new red one. Uncle Henry, who loved Father dearly, took us in, shouldering my upbringing. Yet Aunt Clara’s heart turned venomous. She tormented Mother, who swallowed her pain in silence. Uncle Henry, often away, never saw the cruelty that gnawed at Mother’s spirit.
Time crept on. By five, I watched Mother’s patience shatter. Returning from school one day, I found a crowd in her room. Whispers of “hospital” and “doctor” filled the air. Peering in, I saw Mother, pale as wilted mustard flowers, vomiting blood. Her face, already sallow, resembled turmeric now. It was Sunday; Uncle Henry was at the market. By the time he rushed her to the hospital, her liver had failed. Silent suffering had consumed her, and she left me forever.
After Mother’s death, Aunt Clara’s venom turned on me. “Emma, the curse,” she’d sneer, “devoured her father, then her mother. Who’s next?” Her words, once fleeting, began to pierce my young heart, embedding doubt.
Years blurred—weeks into months, months into years. School became a memory; I inherited Mother’s chores. Uncle Henry wanted me educated, but Aunt Clara wailed, “There’s too much work! What use is this girl?” She claimed girls who studied grew cunning, tainted by the world, chasing boys. “Four years of school is enough,” she declared. “Who’ll guard her honor?”
Uncle Henry, aware of her malice, loved me still. Fearing her wrath, he devised a plan. “My brother left property for Emma,” he said. “Let her study until high school, then marry our son Nathan. Otherwise, the inheritance goes to outsiders.” Aunt Clara, after much thought, relented but insisted I’d marry her brother Raymond instead. Her words chilled me—Raymond’s leering eyes and unsettling gaze made my soul tremble. He was far older, repulsive to me.
When Nathan learned of his mother’s plan, he rebelled. Father and son united against her. Defeated, Aunt Clara yielded. At sixteen, I married Nathan, only three years my senior. He was kind, handsome; people called us a celestial pair. I should’ve found peace as the household’s daughter-in-law, but Aunt Clara’s resentment festered. She vowed to make her niece the next bride, even if it meant removing me.
My first year of marriage passed under her cold glares. When my daughter, Mia, was born, Nathan and I rejoiced, but Aunt Clara seethed. Uncle Henry, ever perceptive, arranged Nathan’s transfer to another city. We moved from Mianwali to Murree, settling into a government house. Three years passed in blissful calm. Nathan, a forestry officer, loved his surveys. But one day, a snake’s venom stole him from me. The poison was swift; he collapsed before help arrived.
Grief shattered me. My world crumbled, but Mia, my reason to live, kept me anchored. I knew the pain of orphanhood; I wouldn’t let her face it alone. Aunt Clara’s voice echoed: she wanted Mia labeled cursed, like me. I vowed to shield my daughter, to live for her.
Uncle Henry brought us back to their home. Aunt Clara’s first words cut deep: “You devoured my son, Emma. I was right—you’re cursed.” Broken, I nodded. “Yes, Aunt Clara, I believe it now. I’m the embodiment of misfortune.” Uncle Henry consoled me, ensuring Mia and I never lacked. But Aunt Clara saw me as a stain on her white veil, now her mother-in-law.
Her words grew crueler: “She ate her mother, her father, my son!” When Mia was seven, tragedy struck again. Uncle Henry, caught in a market brawl, fell to a stray bullet. With each loss, I questioned: was I the harbinger of sorrow? Was God’s wrath upon me or Mia? We’re mere pawns, fragile as glass, shattered by fate’s blows.
Widowed, Aunt Clara fled to her family, who seized Uncle Henry’s property, including our home. Her brother Raymond demanded I vacate. I pleaded for Mia’s share, a single room until her marriage. He offered one condition: marry him. I refused—how could I, his nephew’s widow? Days later, he returned, claiming Mia for her grandmother. Fearing their schemes, I sent Mia to Aunt Clara but insisted on staying with her. “Marry again,” Aunt Clara urged. “My cousin Oliver is kind. You’ll be secure.”
For Mia, I agreed. Oliver was gentle, but twelve years later, he passed away. Mia, now eighteen, needed a suitor. I turned to my father-in-law, a respected elder. His response stunned me: “Is it permissible to marry my son’s daughter? If so, I’ll wed Mia.” My heart sank. Was this the price of a widow’s survival?
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I refused to sacrifice Mia. While my father-in-law planned her marriage, I plotted our escape. Our maid, Sarah, confided in her brother, a soldier in Sargodha. He took us in, hiding us. Declaring me his sister, he found a kind man for Mia. Her wedding day lifted a lifetime’s burden. My son-in-law, a humble soldier, gave us respect and peace.
I had one daughter, yet my life was a storm. How do mothers with many daughters navigate this merciless world? For a widow with young girls, society is a crucible of trials.
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